


All the Nights to Come

by Exxxalted (Gandalfgirl579)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: A Song of Ice and Fire AU, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Canon-Typical Violence, Game of Thrones AU, M/M, Pallazar, Sexual Tension, asoiaf au, lamen, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2017-01-30
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:16:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gandalfgirl579/pseuds/Exxxalted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Up there, high above the ground, the northern winds were howling, rolling thick, snow-bearing clouds across the waning moon. The starlight glittering off the ice of the Wall was the only real light they had, scant though it was. Carefully digging a pair of daggers into the ice with cold-numbed hands, Damen pulled himself up another foot.</p><p>A Captive Prince meets Game of Thrones/A Song of Ice and Fire AU, taking place among the far reaches of the North, at Castle Black, the Wall, and beyond. Fraught with wildlings, white walkers, the men of the Night's Watch, and their ferocious Lord Commander.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Armor of Ice

They were hanging off the edge of the world.

 

Up there, high above the ground, the northern winds were howling, rolling thick, snow-bearing clouds across the waning moon. The starlight glittering off the ice of the Wall was the only real light they had, scant though it was.

 

Carefully digging a pair of blunt daggers into the ice with cold-numbed hands, Damen pulled himself up another foot.

 

Beneath him, Nikandros was moving a bit more carefully, using Damen's dagger holes as footholds, mindful to keep pace with the final member of their group.

 

A few feet below them, Pallas was struggling. This was his first time climbing the Wall, and he had taken an ax wound to his shoulder in the scuffle that had forced them up the Wall in the first place. It had been foolish, forcing him to climb with such a wound, but there had been no choice. The Wall had been their only path of escape.

 

Their campmates hadn't been given the opportunity to climb, and Damen sent a prayer up to the Old Gods in their favor, pausing for an instant to squeeze the tiny carved weirwood face that hung around his neck.

 

A curse from below, and both Damen and Nikandros dropped their eyes to the Pallas, who clung to the Wall with trembling arms, his forehead resting against the ice, breath fogging out around his flushed cheeks. Had it not been for the rope around his waist, tied to Nikandros, then up to Damen, the boy may well have fallen. He was lucky they'd had the time to tie themselves together before the climb.

 

Softly, so as to not alert the Watchers surely manning the top of the Wall, Damen called, "Are you all right?"

 

After the first attempt to speak was silenced by the wind, Pallas rolled his eyes, though he doubted Damen, or even Nikandros, who was closer, could see it. "More or less," he called up to them, and both clung idly to the Wall as they waited for him to catch up. He wasn't certain they had heard him. Sighing, he followed the other men's footholds up a few feet. "How much farther do you think it is to the top?" he asked once he was close enough to speak without the squall blowing his voice away.

 

Glancing up toward the top of the Wall, daggers tight in hand, Damen asked, "Nikandros?"

 

Nikandros, too, looked up, squinting against the wild wind and the soft fall of snowflakes. A year-and-a-half older than Damen, with a full seven years on Pallas, Nikandros had been up the Wall more than either of his companions, though his experience seemed nil in their current situation. "It's hard to tell with the snow," he admitted, craning his neck this way and that, though it did very little to improve his sight. "But judging by how high up we are, I don't imagine it'll be too much longer before we reach the top."

 

"They can't follow us, can they?" Pallas asked, securing his daggers and pulling himself up another foot. For a brief moment, he was farther up than the others, and he stared down at them with worried eyes, squinted against the snow and the exhaustion.

 

Tossing his gaze down and down, though the ground was invisible amongst all the snow and the height, Damen answered, quite truthfully, "I don't know."

 

"They don't seem to be following us," Nikandros said when Pallas nervously caught his eye.

 

"Just the same," Damen said, casting his gaze up the Wall again, "we should keep moving."

 

And so they did.

 

Though the wind tugged at their hair and stung their faces and whipped their clothes about them, Damen, Nikandros and Pallas pressed on up the Wall, spurred on by the memories of the Others, the white walkers hot on their heels. The cold, iron scent of blood followed them up the Wall, the last breaths of their friends and lovers and comrades lingering in their own lungs.

 

Kastor was dead, Damen was sure of it. There was no way he could have survived such injuries. Straton had lost his left hand, and Halvik had fought through a nasty wound to her side. Damen could do nothing but pray for Erasmus and Isander, hidden away with the other war prizes. He hadn't the foggiest idea what had become of Aktis and Talik and Makedon.

 

He shoved the thought away as best he could. He could not allow despair to creep over him. He had to stay strong, for Nikandros and Pallas, if nothing else. They were likely all he had left. That thought, too, was pushed aside, and Damen set his entire mind to the climb, thinking only of the daggers in his hands, and the ice beneath his feet, and the cold wind whipping at his back through his cloak and tunic, deep enough to scar.

 

After what had felt like ages, the group reached the top of the Wall.

 

As Damen finally laid feet on the gravel-paved walkway, he sighed, releasing the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, tense, so deep in his lungs that he'd forgotten about it. Then, turning, he helped Pallas up while Nikandros gazed out over the South, his dark-honey eyes plotting paths through the wilderness.

 

Following his gaze, Pallas sighed. He was rather disappointed. Truth be told, this land didn't look any different than the land north of the Wall. Autumn was just laying golden fingers on the trees, early snow dotting the yellowing grass. Tucking his daggers into his belt and rubbing at his bloodied shoulder, Pallas met Nikandros's eyes and asked, "What now?"

 

"Our best bet," Nikandros said, pulling his cloak tighter around his shoulders, "is to go south."

 

"As far south as south goes," Pallas agreed.

 

"Dorne?" Damen asked, pursing his lips, brows drawn together. He was fiddling with the sloppy knot that attached him to Nikandros. They'd been in too much of a hurry to get off the ground to have bothered with neatness. "What are free folk meant to do in Dorne?"

 

" _Be safe_ ," Pallas insisted, though Damen ultimately ignored him.

 

"We don't bend the knee to _anyone_ ," he said, undoing the knot between him and Nikandros, moving on to the one that attached him to Pallas, "and that _includes_ the Others."

 

Looking hesitant, sharing a brief glance with Pallas, Nikandros said, "You saw what they did to our people, Damen. You saw what they did _to your brother_. They will do the same to us if we try to fight them."

 

A scoff, then Damen said, almost to knot in his hands, "I never knew you to be a coward, Nikandros."

 

For a long moment, Nikandros was silent, then he glared, his dark-honey eyes glinting dangerously for a moment before he sighed. "I don't know who's the bigger fool," he said. "You for insisting on fighting them, or me for following you."

 

Smiling a bit as he stood, the knot coming free, Damen stepped forward, Nikandros and Pallas following close behind.

 

In the distance, somewhere far along the Wall, a flame was burning. It was small, most likely a lantern carried by one of the men of the Night's Watch.

 

"I think," Pallas said, his voice soft, stepping back, "we'd better go the other way."

 

"No." There was no questioning Damen when he used that tone. For just an instant, he sounded like a true King-Beyond-the-Wall. He would have worn the mantle better than Kastor had. If they ever got the chance to go back, perhaps he _would_. "We have to warn them."

 

"Do you think the crows would have warned _us_?" Nikandros asked, though it sounded more like a demand. "Have you any idea how many good men we've lost to them?"

 

"We've lost more to the Others," was Damen's reply, and he moved closer to the lantern-light, not bothering to see if Nikandros and Pallas were following. He knew them well enough to know that they would follow him anywhere. "And I'd wager the Watchers have, as well."

 

Still clearly bothered, Nikandros asked, "And what would you have us do? Winter is coming, and we're likely the only ones left. We can't fight the Others, and we can't go back to the encampment, and we can't trust the crows to help us. What other choice is there?"

 

Glancing over his shoulder, Damen met dark-honey eyes with amber, challenging. "Who said fighting them wasn't an option?"

 

"Damianos, _they will kill us_."

 

"Then we'll die fighting," Damen agreed with a wry half-smile. "Isn't that the way of the free folk?"

 

Though he sighed again, Nikandros said nothing. It was the truth.

 

The light was drawing closer, bobbing merrily along through the snow, and Pallas took a step closer to Damen, giving a little shiver that was most certainly _not_ caused by the cold. "Damen?" Pallas spoke the name gingerly, stepping just the slightest bit behind the other man, meeting dark eyes with darker ones. "What makes you think the crows won't kill us on sight?"

 

There was a moment of uneasy silence before Damen replied, "It's a gamble, I'll admit."

 

Steeling himself, Pallas nodded, lifting a hand to the gash in his shoulder. The blood left behind was tacky and half-frozen, sticking the grimy whitish leather of his tunic to the wound. The wind whipped his cloak against it, keeping it open, keeping the blood oozing. It was going to sting like mad when he finally got around to getting it treated. He was getting dizzy from the blood loss, too, but he said nothing of it to Damen or Nikandros. They had bigger problems than a little dizziness.

 

The wind was always a problem up here, both Damen and Nikandros knew, and a particularly powerful gust nearly blew Pallas off his feet.

 

Nikandros was the one to grab him, looping a steadying arm around the younger man's waist. Brows furrowed, he asked, "Are you all right?"

 

"It's just a scratch," was all Pallas could bring himself to say.

 

Lifting one hand to the boy's cheek, Nikandros murmured, "You're as cold as death."

 

A shrug, and Pallas pointed out, half wry and half desperate, "It's snowing." Nikandros didn't look convinced. Pallas met his eyes, his own mirror-black. It was meant as comfort when he opened his mouth to speak again, but all that came out was a pained gasp.

 

Nikandros's eyes didn't leave Pallas's when he called, "Damen!"

 

In an instant, Damen was with them, asking, "What's wrong?"

 

Nikandros said nothing, though the way Pallas swayed against his side was answer enough, and Damen stepped closer, then around behind them, shoving the boy's cloak aside and examining the wound as best he could without removing his tunic.

 

"Is it bad?" There was something like dry laughter in the boy's voice.

 

"It's deep." Gingerly, Damen pressed one gloved hand to the wound. It was swollen and hot, even through the leather of Damen's gloves, the edges pink and torn where they weren't caked with dried blood. They hadn't had time to look at it before, and the rush up the Wall had certainly only made it worse. "We need to get a salve on it before it festers."

 

Resignedly, Pallas asked, meeting amber eyes over his shoulder, "Think the crows have anything for it?"

 

"I think, if they don't..." Damen trailed off, and both Pallas and Nikandros looked along the line of the Wall, to the bobbing light that was getting closer still. It couldn't be more than a hundred feet away, and Damen took a step toward it, decisive.

 

Behind him, Nikandros and Pallas did the same, with Pallas's weight still supported against the other man's side, both hands fisted hard in the worn leather of Nikandros's cloak. Pulling away for just an instant, Nikandros draped the side of it over the boy's shoulders, too, cocooning him in fabric and tucking him against his side.

 

The warmth was nice, though it made the dizziness worse. "Maybe we can use this to our advantage," Pallas heard himself say, not quite present enough to tell if he was speaking aloud or not. "Perhaps they'll pity me, and decide not to kill us, after all?"

 

Nikandros rolled his eyes, half amused and half worried, and ahead of them, Damen gave an unflattering but obviously amused snort.

 

"I don't see you two being optimistic," Pallas added, and Nikandros finally cast a smile down at him, though it was somewhat halfhearted. The warmth of the elder man's cloak was starting to warm Pallas a bit, and he leaned into it. "So it falls to me, doesn't it?"

 

"That's all well and good," Damen said, tensing as they drew closer to the light, "but try to keep it down, won't you?"

 

Instead of quieting, though, Pallas asked in a still-rather-loud whisper, "Shall we make a white flag? I'd offer my tunic, but it's more red than white at the moment..."

 

Leaning in, Nikandros clapped a hand over his mouth, and Pallas shot a dark, pretty glare up at him. " _Hush_ ," was all the older man said.

 

With their movements forward, and the movement of the light toward them, all too soon, they met with the crow, his black garb hard to see in the dark, though his shoulders were spattered with flakes of snow, the light of his lantern playing through his golden hair, though it was mostly hidden beneath the hood of his cloak.

 

"Halt!" The command came in the Common Tongue, though Pallas, who spoke only the Old Tongue of the First Men, and Nikandros, whose grasp of the new tongue was weak at best, understood just the same. The crow presented a fine sword, his narrow shoulders pulled back, eyes sharp, catching moonlight. They were blue, his hands black, and Pallas took a step back.

 

"It's all right," Nikandros murmured to him, struggling to keep from drawing his daggers. "He's not one of them." His hands were _not black_ , Nikandros told himself. They were gloves. Blue eyes were fairly common among Southerners. He wasn't _deathly_ pale, he was simply washed out by the moonlight. Nikandros prayed he wasn't deluding himself.

 

Stepping closer, the crow lifted his lantern to better see their faces. The light shone over his own face, as well, and Damen shivered, though it had less to do with the cold around him, and far more to do with the Watcher's glare. Other or not, his eyes were cold as ice. Sounding as though the group had personally offended him, the crow said, " _You're wildlings_."

 

Gathering his voice, Damen agreed, "We are."

 

The crow's eyes darted to Damen then, one golden brow lifted high, and he asked, "You speak the Common Tongue?"

 

" _I_ do." Damen nodded to his companions, and the Watcher followed his gaze, still cautious, his sword still held tightly in one leather-gloved hand. "The little one doesn't, but the other one knows a bit."

 

"What are you doing on the Wall?"

 

"Running."

 

Drawing his pale brows together, the sword finally lowering, though still tightly gripped, the crow asked, "Running from _what_?"

 

"White walkers," Damen said. _Others_ was too general.

 

A smirk, and the crow's brilliant eyes rolled. "There's no such thing."

 

"You've lost brothers to them, haven't you?" Damen asked, and the crow's pretty lips pursed. "No matter what your Lord Commander tells you, the Others _are out there_. He's probably seen them himself."

 

For a moment, the sound of wind howling around them was the only noise to be heard. Then, sheathing his sword, the crow jerked his chin toward Pallas, asking, "Is he hurt?"

 

"Yes. One of them wounded him with an ax. That's why we were climbing." Damen glanced back to the crow, meeting blue eyes with amber ones, saying, "If he doesn't get help, he'll die." Carefully, he stepped forward, imploring, " _Please_ , help him."

 

"I didn't know wildlings knew that word." The Watcher looked both disgusted and impressed. " _Please_."

 

Still supporting Pallas, Nikandros hissed in his guttural Common Tongue, "We're more human than you give us credit for, crow."

 

Ignoring him, Damen said again, " _Please_. If you allow me to speak to the Lord Commander, I'm sure we could--"

 

"The Lord Commander hates wildlings," the crow said with a shrug of narrow shoulders. Tossing a glance at Pallas's ashen face, then to Nikandros's fierce glare, then back to Damen's earnest expression, he said, "You'd probably be better off with the white walkers."


	2. Castle Black

"We should have one of these on our side of the Wall." Gloved hands wrapped around the bars of the lift, Pallas's eyes were wide, gazing out at the South, vast and snow-flecked and not so very different from the North. "It would have made it a lot easier to get up there." His injured shoulder was still throbbing. It probably would for quite some time yet.

 

"It would have made it a lot easier for the Others could follow us." Nikandros's voice was low, as if he could keep the Watcher from hearing him, as if the language barrier wasn't enough, though they stood only feet from each other.

 

Pallas's dark, dark eyes suddenly darted up, high along the ice of the Wall, searching even as they fell. In a tiny, soft voice, he asked, "Do you really think they're following us?"

 

Squeezing Pallas's uninjured shoulder, Nikandros followed the boy's gaze up the Wall. He said nothing, lips drawn into a tight line, dark-honey eyes narrowed and sharp.

 

"What are they talking about?" The crow's eyes, a bright, pretty blue, were on Damen, one pale brow arched in curiosity.

 

Casting a glance at Pallas, then at Nikandros, ignoring the latter's discouraging look, Damen eventually said, "They were wondering if the white walkers could follow us."

 

"Not so far." The Watcher's eyes, gazing high, went flat black for a moment when clouds slipped over the moon. "It's been something like eight-thousand years since the Watch came about, and we've never seen Others at all, let alone south of the Wall."

 

Damen translated, though Pallas was quick to ask, "But if they _were_ seen, could they...?"

 

Again, Damen translated, and with a shrug, the crow said, "As far as we know, it's not possible for them to scale the Wall."

 

Another translation, and Pallas pressed his lips into a thin line, eyes still cast upwards, mirroring Nikandros's expression.

 

The Watcher's words were of little comfort.

 

Then Pallas's eyes were on Damen's, and he asked, "Does he intend to kill us?"

 

Though he was hesitant, Damen said, softly, "I don't think so." Then he turned to the Watcher, asking in the Common Tongue, " _Do_ you intend to kill us?"

 

Pondering for a moment, the crow eventually said, "No, I don't think so."

 

They were nearing the bottom of the Wall, and Pallas leaned into Nikandros's side, the elder man's cloak still draped about both their shoulders, keeping him close. Were it not for Nikandros's support, it was likely Pallas would have collapsed. His face was ashen, his lips just the slightest bit bluish.

 

"I can't say my brothers will take this well," the Watcher said, "but I, _personally_ , do not intend to kill any of you."

 

That, too, was less than comforting.

 

When the lift stuttered to a halt mere inches from the ground, another crow approached, this one older, probably of age with Nikandros, dark-haired and green-eyed, scruffy and handsome. "What've you got there?" His voice was rough, though his tone wasn't hateful.

 

"Wildlings," the blonde Watcher replied as he unlatched the lift door. Then he swung it open and stepped off into the snow, keeping a close watch on his captives. "The little one is injured."

 

The older crow looked a bit worried, his brow furrowed as he stared at Pallas.

 

Pallas, emboldened by blood loss and the nearness of Damen and Nikandros, stared back, though it was clear that what little blood was left in his body was currently flushing up into his cheeks.

 

"Lazar." A command from the blonde broke the stare. "I want you to take these two--" He gestured at Pallas and Nikandros, who looked anxiously to Damen. "--to see the Maester. The other one will be with me in the dining hall. I need to speak with him."

 

Tightening his arm around Pallas's waist, Nikandros said, in the Old Tongue, "We need to stay together."

 

"Pallas needs to be treated," was Damen's argument. "I'll be fine." Nikandros didn't argue either of those points. "You need to stay with Pallas; You know he doesn't speak a word of the Common Tongue. We can't send him in blind, even if only to see a Maester."

 

In the Common Tongue, Nikandros turned his eyes to the younger Watcher, asking, "What is a Maester?"

 

The older crow replied first, asking, pleased and surprised, "You speak the Common Tongue?"

 

Nikandros lifted one hand in a wishy-washy gesture, admitting, "Only a little."

 

Nodding, the elder crow said, "A Maester's something of a physician." At Nikandros's confused stare, he gave a sheepish half-smile and clarified, " _A healer_."

 

Leaning in to whisper a few reassuring words to Pallas, Nikandros nodded at Damen, and he and the boy followed close behind the older crow, deeper into the little maze of buildings around the castle.

 

Though Damen had been over the Wall quite a few times, he had never seen a proper castle. He'd seen the ruins of Queenscrown, at the southern edge of Brandon's Gift, but he had hoped for _some_ measure of grandeur, at least.

 

He was rather disappointed.

 

Castle Black was less than impressive, shabby and crumbling, though it was far more substantial than anything in the free folk encampments. Stone was too heavy to carry on their wanderings, though Damen had, a time or two, longed for a more solid homestead. He put the thought aside when the blonde crow looked up at him, saying, "This way."

 

Off to the right, the Wall at their backs, Damen followed the Watcher past a number of other wide-eyed Watchers, past a pair of stone-faced guards at an ancient-looking pair of doors and into what looked to be a dining hall of some kind.

 

It was warm inside, kept so by a fair of massive fireplaces on either side of the room, and it smelled of ale and smoke and cooked meat. Damen breathed it in as deeply as he could manage, willing the warmth to melt away the ice crystals in his lungs.

 

A number of battered wooden tables and long benches were sat out amongst the main space, a longer one at a stone dais at the back of the room, and five chairs sat behind it.

 

Damen was a bit surprised when the crow took the center seat at the raised table: It was meant for the Lord Commander, he was certain.

 

Taking a seat of his own on one of the long benches in the main area, easily within earshot, Damen asked, "Who are you?"

 

"A brother of the Night's Watch," the crow said with a shrug of his narrow shoulders. There was snow melting into the fabric of his cloak, though he made no move to remove it. His cheeks were still pink with the cold. "Who are _you_?"

 

Damen answered with an equally vague, "One of the free folk."

 

Nodding, looking strangely satisfied, the crow said, "My name is Laurent of House Vere." Damen was dimly aware of his eyes widening. He knew that name. "I am the nine-hundred-ninety-ninth Lord Commander of the Night's Watch."

 

Then Damen nodded, too, replying, "I'm Damen. _Damianos_. My older brother was Kastor, the King-Beyond-the-Wall."

 

"Your brother _was_ Kastor?" Brow furrowed, the Lord Commander said again, " _Was_?"

 

"Kastor is dead." Damen didn't quite believe it, but it had to be true. It wasn't possible to lose multiple limbs and come out alive.

 

"I suppose your _white walkers_ are to blame for it?" Laurent shrugged. "Good riddance," was his final say on the matter. "Saves us the trouble." Then he met Damen's eyes, blue on amber, saying, "But you said you're _Damianos_?"

 

Bristling a bit at the sudden teasing tone in the Lord Commander's voice, Damen said, "I am."

 

Laurent said, "I've heard of you."

 

"Most of the Night's Watch has, I imagine."

 

It was not arrogance; Damen's skill was well-known among the Watcher's, though it was his mercy towards their kind that had truly caught their attention.

 

"They call you a crow-lover," the Lord Commander pointed out, his pretty lips curled into a sharp little smirk.

 

"I've no great love for crows," Damen said, the beginnings of a well-worn rote, "but I do show mercy to those who deserve it."

 

At the dais, Laurent lifted one brow, intrigued.

 

"Your rangers aren't bad people, for the most part," Damen continued, encouraged by the obvious interest of the Lord Commander. "They're simply men doing as they were trained to do."

 

"That's true."

 

Though Damen nodded, he said nothing.

 

The Lord Commander sighed then, leaning forward to cross his arms over the scarred wood of the table. "The boy would have died without treatment, that much is obvious. He's, what, eighteen?" When Damen nodded, he continued, "He's just _a boy_. We couldn't send away an _injured child_. It would be irresponsible." His eyes met Damen's again when he asked, "What's his name again?"

 

"Pallas."

 

" _Pallas_." Laurent nodded to himself, as if cementing the name in his memory. "And the other one was... _Nikandros_ , yes?"

 

"Yes."

 

"The three of you may stay here until the boy has recovered," Laurent said, his voice distant. "After that..."

 

Damen's brow furrowed, and he prompted, " _After that_...?"

 

"After that, we have two options on how to handle you and _Nikandros_ and _Pallas_." The names sounded strange and foreign on Laurent's lips, almost lyrical. "Our first option is to turn you loose north of the Wall."

 

" _No_." Damen's tone was unquestionable, his amber eyes cold and unmoving. Laurent didn't seem to mind. "We aren't going back there."

 

"Ah, that's right, your _white walkers_." Laurent's eyes rolled, and to Damen, it didn't quite seem an appropriate gesture for a Lord Commander of the Night's Watch. "They'll, what, _eat you_ if you go back?"

 

"Or worse," Damen agreed, his voice gone cold, matching his eyes.

 

"The second option," Laurent said, almost flippant, ignoring Damen entirely, "is execution."

 

"You would see Pallas's wounds treated just to execute him?" The scorn in Damen's voice was also present in his eyes, blazing.

 

Laurent hardly seemed to notice. "We can't allow wildlings to roam unchecked south of the Wall," was his defense.

 

It was true, Damen supposed. Just the same, he said, "It isn't as if _we chose_ to be born north of the Wall. We're _men_ , _like you_ , and isn't it the duty of the Night's Watch to protect _the realms of men_?"

 

"The land beyond the Wall--"

 

"Is populated _by men_ ," Damen interrupted, and the Lord Commander seemed to be a mix of irritated and impressed, the tiniest ghost of a smirk lingering at one corner of his mouth. " _A realm of men_ , the same as the south."

 

"There are Thenns up there," Laurent said, cautious, testing the waters, "and--"

 

Again, Damen cut in: "And Hornfoots and the Ice Clans, yes, but the majority north of the Wall are _men_ , like you and I. You'd find more danger from the men in King's Landing than you would among the free folk."

 

The smirk finally revealing itself, Laurent asked, "You're very stubborn, aren't you?" He didn't wait for an answer. Instead, he pushed his chair back and stepped down from the dais, a gloved hand trailing across Damen's shoulder as he passed, moving to wait at the door, saying, "Come along."

 

A bit hesitant, Damen obeyed, stepping out into the cold again, keeping close to the Lord Commander's side. As they treaded their way through the ankle-deep snow, deeper into the complex of huts and crumbling stonework, Damen found himself asking, "Where are we going?"

 

"To see the Maester." He turned to regard Damen for a moment, though his stride didn't slow. "Or would you rather Pallas and Nikandros see him alone?"

 

"Maesters are typically old men, are they not?" Damen asked, puzzled. "They can handle an old man."

 

"The Maester, as it happens, hates wildlings more than I do."

 

There was no venom in Damen's voice when he pointed out, "Yet you don't seem to really hate us at all."

 

"I must admit," Laurent said, his voice soft, audible only to Damen, "I hate him more than I hate you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wonder if that little hint is enough to make it clear who the Maester of Castle Black is?
> 
> Oh, oh, also: Lazar! I do love him so :) Seriously. After Laurent and Nik and Nic, he's prob'ly my favorite
> 
> I also must apologize for the wait between chapters. I think this is the longest I've ever gone without updating on any fic ever. I am ashamed.


	3. Halfway to Treason

In one of the lesser towers lining the grounds of Castle Black, up a flight of frosty-walled stairs and beyond a pair of armed guards who regarded Damen with equally frigid glares, were the Maester's quarters.

 

Strewn about with glowing lanterns and gently flickering candles and a roaring fire blazing in the massive hearth set into the far wall, it was much warmer and infinitely brighter than the dining hall had been, and as Damen and Laurent stepped inside, both relaxed, though only minutely.

 

Lazar, the green-eyed Watcher who had escorted Nikandros and Pallas there, stood in the far corner of the room, warming his hands with candleflame, and he tossed Damen and Laurent an amiable nod.

 

Settled on a worn wooden bench, his torso bare, shirt and cloak held tight to his chest as if to protect his nonexistent virtue, Pallas glanced up to meet Damen's eyes.

 

Not far off, supporting his exhausted weight against a bookshelf, still clad in his blood-spattered cloak, Nikandros did the same. He looked far less pleased than Pallas had, his dark-honey eyes lined with worry and sleep shadows.

 

Clicking his tongue, Damen asked, "How did you fare without me?"

 

It was half a joke, spoken in the Old Tongue, and both Pallas and Nikandros smiled a bit, albeit clearly reluctantly.

 

The Maester, an older man with a full beard and silvered temples, seemed less amused, pausing in his stitching of Pallas's shoulder to spare a derisive glance at Damen.

 

The boy at his side, an exquisite little thing holding an iron tray laden with thread and needles and strips of binding cloth, had an even fiercer glare.

 

Damen paid their hostility no mind, announcing, "My name is Damianos." Neither Watcher gave much response, though the boy looked to the Maester for a moment, one dark brow raised, disappearing beneath chestnut curls. "You've met Pallas and--"

 

"The crow-fucker?" It was the boy speaking, his pretty lips curled into a smirk that seemed far too wicked for a child his age. "You're _Damianos_ , the _crow-fucker_?"

 

Ignoring a pang of something like disgust, Damen continued, a bit more firmly, " _You've met Pallas_ \--"

 

"Why are you even here?" Again, it was the boy, and the Maester shook his head before returning to work, paying his audience no heed. "Wildlings have no place--"

 

"Nicaise."

 

It was nothing less than a command, and the boy scowled, pretty and poisonous, asking, "Why are you defending them?"

 

"They came here seeking help." Though Damen would not have questioned that tone, Nicaise looked less than intimidated. "And _he_ \--" Laurent jerked his chin toward Pallas. "--Is still a child. I'm not about to turn away an injured child."

 

"Didn't know you had a sense of empathy."

 

" _Nicaise_."

 

This time, it was the Maester speaking, and Nicaise froze, narrow shoulders curling, too-blue eyes darting to the tray in his hands.

 

Finishing the stitching along Pallas's shoulder, the Maester placed his needle upon the little tray in Nicaise's hands and stood. He was a tall, broad man, strongly built despite his age, and Damen briefly wondered why it was he was a healer and not a soldier. It seemed unfitting. "You very nearly waited too long," he said to Damen. When he took hold of a long walking stick that had been left along the bench, his Maester status became more understandable. When he stepped toward a heavy wooden table at the center of the room to note the loss of supplies in an old log book, his limp was nothing less than pronounced. "A few minutes more, and it's likely he would have bled out. You're fortunate the cold was working in your favor."

 

"I would have seen him treated myself," Damen said, doing his best to keep the winter wind out of his voice, "but I had no access to anything that would have been any use."

 

"And had we stopped," Nikandros added, speaking slowly as to not slur the strange Common Tongued words, "we would all have ended up dead."

 

Wiping his hands on a scrap of fabric laid over the edge of the table, the Maester agreed, "Of that I have no doubt."

 

Stepping closer to Pallas to examine the wound, Damen pressed a comforting hand to the boy's uninjured shoulder, and Pallas dared a bleary-eyed glance up at him. Softly, in the Old Tongue, Damen asked, "Did he hurt you?"

 

Pallas simply shook his head.

 

Holding back a little sigh and giving Pallas's shoulder a squeeze, Damen's honey-gold eyes darted to the Maester. As civilly as he could manage, he said, "Thank you."

 

"I've never put my skills to use on a wildling before," the Maester said, ignoring Damen and taking a long drink from an old iron goblet. "Imagine my surprise to find that they are only men and not beasts."

 

Damen's gaze hardened.

 

Setting the goblet down with a bit more force than was truly necessary, the Maester glanced at Laurent, asking, "It's halfway to treason, isn't it? Helping the enemy?"

 

Stepping closer to Damen and Pallas, ready to spring to their defense, Nikandros curled his leather-gloved hands into tight fists.

 

"They aren't our enemy."

 

Both the Maester and Nicaise looked unpleasantly surprised. Not far from Nikandros, arms crossed over his chest, Lazar was clearly far less displeased, smirking a bit, dark eyes darting to Pallas for a moment.

 

"They are _wildlings_." The Maester said the word as if it were the blackest curse imaginable. "Our duty--"

 

" _Our duty_ ," Laurent said, "is to protect _the realms of men_." He tossed a glance at Damen, as if seeing him for the first time, though his gaze quickly darted back to the Maester, sharp and cold. "You just said yourself, they are _only men_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally a new chapter! It's a rather short one, but I'm still recovering from a project in another fandom, so.
> 
> This fic, as it continues, will have chapters of various lengths. I feel I'm limiting myself if I push for a minimum length, y'know? And it's not as though books use measured lengths for their chapters, so why limit myself?
> 
> With luck, the next chapter will be up within the month. Keep in mind that I have two other long-running fics to update as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Ooh, GoT/ASoIaF crossed with Captive Prince! This is gonna be such a happy story! :) I'm kinda-sorta emulating George R.R. Martin's style (Or trying to, at least), so this is already feeling... Denser, I guess, than my usual style. It feels more authentic this way, I think
> 
> By the way, the title for the fic comes from the vow one must take in order to enter into the Night's watch. The title for the chapter comes from Karliene's GoT fan-song, Snow. Go listen to it. It's lovely. 
> 
> And a last note: I've read the books and watched the show, so I might be getting in a bit too deep for those of you who aren't GoT/ASoIaF fans, so if you have questions, just let me know!
> 
> Excited for more fics? Have constructive criticism or even just silly comments to add? Let me know! And as always, I must mention that I go by pr0ko on Tumblr, and I'm totally open to taking questions and comments and requests and prompts there! :) Hit me up!


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